The Sound of Settling
by crackers4jenn
Summary: Just a fill in from s4. Spike, Buffy, Giles, and Xander. Set between Pangs and Something Blue.


If Spike could twist it just so, it'd almost be flattering.

Plucked out of hundreds-- No, _thousands_. Had to be, at least, given the demon population of this godforsaken town.

So, there he was, this specially plucked one-out-of-thousands, added in with the fact that obviously there was something in him they saw that they'd felt the need to tie a leash around. Keep him on it, nice and secure. Because he was just that bloody dangerous. Damn right he was. Had more than a century's worth of practice in the fine art of maim and slaughter, he was a mite bit more than just _dangerous_.

He was a walking history lesson, straight out of the pages of the Slayer's handbook. Illustrated blood and gore, brought to life. Pretty little drawings of his two greatest defeats, in the flesh and bone. He was---

Pathetic.

Bloody hell, he was pathetic. Worse than that. Worse than anything he could even bother to admonish himself with. He was the lamest excuse of a vampire, sodding Harmony included.

William the Bloody. Glory, swagger, reputation, sod all else-- sounds nice enough, right? Right. Minus the part where he's currently buckled down in the porcelain equivalent of a torture chamber. Good and shackled, lest the chip in his head wasn't humiliation enough.

And the _Watcher_ was the one playing warden. Some crusty old librarian was seeing to him currently being on the chained down end of captivity.

Hell, remind him where he agreed to this.

Spike remembered showing up at the Slayer's door, quarter past the-sun's-at-its-highest-you-bloody-git, all but waving the white flag as he dropped to his proverbial knees and _begged_ the Slayer for some help. Remembered the hesitantly offered invite, the getting tied to a chair that followed... Remembered Sitting Bear and his attacking entourage, somehow getting mistaken for being on the Slayer's side of the battle and therefore receiving more than a handful of arrows to his various (and not limited to) limbs and appendages. There was the dinner afterwards, after Team Scooby had declared victory, in which he got to join them for their picturesque little group setting and watch as they all stuffed their faces. Not a thing in it for him.

And where, in that, had he agreed to this kind of treatment? Oh, that's right-- he _hadn't_.

Scoobies moral do-gooders obvious people to go to.

Mortal enemies, aside.

They supply him with blood, maybe scrounge together a healthy, friendly amount of dosh, and offer their whole-hearted concern and sympathy.

He takes, gives them the ol' two-finger salute, and about-faces right back into the real world, pockets full and stomach happy.

Good plan. Simple, effective. Admittedly not best for the long-haul, but short-term speaking it'd have worked just fine.

So you see the problem in this current situation of being chained to the Watcher's tub.

Never mind the chip.

And, yeah, that brings up a real good point-- he still wasn't counting out the Slayer's involvement with the whole lot of GI Joe Gone Bad staged underground. Hell, she acted innocent enough. All wide-eyed and "what do you know, Spike?" but hell if she wasn't laced in their very same lines, dancing the dance of Chosen One and Upstanding U.S. Citizen by combining the two.

Efficient. He'd give her that. Cheeky little move. Spike wondered if the Watcher knew about it.

Probably.

Bloody Watchers, always no more than two steps behind their little homicidal protégées.

And the worse of it was that he'd _fallen_ for the whole thing, like some wooded animal. Traipsed after the Slayer while she was on _patrol_, all death threats and sworn vendettas, and didn't even notice the plethora of army half-wits surrounding him 'til it was too late and he'd been zapped by that damn taser.

Exactly like a trap.

God, she really must've planned the whole sodding thing out. Acting all normal, making with her cute little quips and putting on a good show of dusting vamps, but the whole bleeding thing had to have been staged. Soldiers waiting in the bushes while she lures him out, lulling him into that false sense of security where he'd felt perfectly content to speechify about her foreboding death.

And that's when she attacks. Has her _beefcakes_ do all the real work, taking out a threat like him. And notice they had to go to the modernized weaponry, yeah? Doesn't matter how well his fangs slice through, bit hard to get 'em into good use when you're being crispy-fried by that little rectangular zap-it box by six or seven life-size action figures.

And look at him now. Straight back into the arms of the enemy! Like he hadn't learnt his lesson the first time, _this_ is where he crawls back to? The source, so he'd come to conclude, of the whole thing to begin with!

Fate is a royal bitch.

Hell, he must've pissed off someone in a past life. Couldn't possibly have been _his_ past life, being that that was a road far more pathetic than damning. Unless this was all some glorified attempt at irony. Defang the vampire. Got to be some sick joke in there somewhere, beside the obvious.

Yeah, the joke was him. Defanged and housebroken, at the mercy of the killer of his kind.

Spike kicked at the heel of the tub with the tip of his boot, the action making a small black scuff mark amongst the pearly white.

_Well, well_.

Spike smiled. And then kicked again, creating yet another mark. Two little black marks now stained the Watchers prestine tub, work of one William the Bloody. He'd have added another one, but those first two kicks made the chain fall uncomfortably between his ankle and the hard, unyeilding side of the tub, biting into him. Frustrated with the pure annoyance of it, he tilted his head back, jaw clenched, eyes squeezed shut, and resisted the overwhelming urge to shout something loud and profane and-- On second thought:

"Bloody _fucking_--"

The sound of scuffling in the next room over quickly had his attention snapping towards the door, the pain the chains were causing immediately forgotten about. Not that it was all that intolerable to begin with, but-- it was simple etiquette, here!

"I am _so_ going to stake him," he heard the Hunter herself mutter, and could only imagine the ways in which she was now stomping towards his holding cell.

"Buffy--" the Watcher's voice sounded futilely, but it was drowned out by the sound of the bathroom door being ever-so-courteously inched open. Scratch that-- drowned out by the bathroom door being forcefully kicked open, the Slayer on the other side immediately sending Spike a glare promising of a dusty demise, and soon.

Naturally he wasn't the least bit rattled by it.

"Finally," he muttered, eyeing her like a displeased customer and her the shoddy waitress. "You work out your virtues and come to an agreement, or what?"

See, that was normal and not at all giving way to the rage boiling inside, leaving the Slayer none-the-wiser. Better to play this calm and collected, lest she has some other group of commandos stashed near-by, waiting for other, more literal castrations of sort to play out.

"You know, I've thought about it... went over it a few times, weighed my options... and I've decided that I'm not feeling very _virtuous_ today, Spike."

His eyes narrowed. "Meaning?"

One fluid motion, almost too quick even for his enhanced vamp eyes to catch, she'd whipped out a stake, pulled out from hell if he knew. Waistband of her painted on jeans, or... thin air, like a rabbit out a top hat. Damn right, he wasn't counting out a use of magic-- he already knew her girly mate Red dabbled in it, God knows if it'd spread to the Chosen One herself yet. And damn all if it had.

"Meaning," her little pal Xander filled in, joining the Slayer at her side, "that Buffy go stakey. In related news, Spike go dusty."

Spike's eyes narrowed even further, him gripping the shackles around his wrists in a tight, deadly casual hold. What he wouldn't give to use these on the boy. Strangle him, wrap them around his throat until there wasn't a sputter of useless breath left. Or, hell, maybe just use them to chain him up somewhere, away, some dark cave where the Slayer'd never find him 'til he went and starved himself to death. Judging by the extra meat hanging off the boy's skin, though, Spike figured it'd probably end up backfiring on him-- boy was a walking mallet of fat, he'd probably last long enough for the Slayer and her Gang of Do-Gooders to find him.

"We're not dusting Spike," came the voice of reason Spike was looking for, straight out of the mouth of Giles, who'd join the huddle of mortals in the doorway. Good--- this was good! The Watcher, he had authority over the Slayer. Her orders had to come from _somewhere_, the American bloody government aside.

And damn right he wasn't giving up yet on her involvement with the soldiers!

"Maybe not _you_," the Slayer retorted, still clutching the stake at her side. "I know how you don't like to get down and dirty with the combat--"

"I do so!" the Watcher scoffed, matching his Slayer in pettiness.

Great. And there went Spike's chances of survival.

"I'll do it!" Xander cheerfully volunteered, and Spike resisted yet again the ungodly urge to rip the boy's head off.

"Please, if anyone gets to do it it's me," Buffy countered, all hoity-toity.

"_No one_ is doing it," the Watcher sighed, while Spike merely thought how sadly true that statement was, his mind taking a cruise down the same dusty, abandoned roads as his sex drive. Been a long time. God, not since Harmony...

"Why not? I have a stake," the Slayer _pouted_, lifting up the bloody stick in question like Exhibit A.

The Watcher looked tempted. Spike could see his intentions shifting, Giles weighing the options in his mind. Some internal sense of needing to do good was probably kicking in, acting all pesky and annoying.

Spike decided now was about the time for input.

"I know stuff!" he opted, telling no one in particular.

The Slayer responded with an undignified snort. "Giles, do we have a ribbon? Spike _knows stuff!_"

God, he hated this bint.

"Stuff," he elaborated slowly, not wanting her to get too confused, "about your toy soldiers. But I suspect you already know all you need to know about 'em, _don't you?_"

Aimed a cool stare at her, letting her know that he'd caught on to her Sydney Bristow impression. Tried to lean back in the tub to create another sense of nonchalance to the whole thing, but the chains pretty much limited his movement to zero.

The Slayer, withering under his glare, faltered. Blinked dumbly. "What are you talking about?"

So she wanted him to spell it out for her? Interesting tactic.

"I _know_, Slayer," is all he said, leaning slightly forward in the tub, eyes locked with only hers.

"Okay, anyone else feel like we've been warped into a scene from The Godfather?" Xander interrupted, hand passing back and forth between the Slayer and her Watcher like he was expecting a majority ruled vote. "Anyone?"

"So, Giles," the Slayer started, all slow and contemptuous, holding Spike's stare. "When you're writing up your report on the results of a vampire being _neutered_ thanks to modern day technology and fascists with _way_ too much time on their hands-- add _crazy and insane_ to the top of the list."

"_I'm_ crazy?" Spike snorted. "Please, you're keeping hostage that same _neutered_ vampire-- what's it say about you?"

"Hostage?" she bit out, taking an incredulous step forward, that stake still held in plain view. "You came to us, Spike, not the other way around."

"Yeah, and I'm chained to the sodding tub!"

"When you should be dust!"

Fed up, Spike tried to just up and leave the tub himself, sod the many layers of chains keeping him down. Turns out the "layers" thing was working in their favor, because he moved not a god damned inch. Made a great heaping racket rattling the chains in the process, filling up the room with noise, but still remained glued to that bloody tub.

"Fine. Deal's off. Let me go."

The Slayer dropped the disbelief for a cold, mocking smile. "Sorry, but we're not currently dealing with hostage negotians."

Spike was seeing red.

"Buffy," the Watcher attempted, trying to douse the situation.

"So, what?" Spike cried incredulously, "You're keeping me here? Like this?"

"What's wrong with this?" she asked, innocently enough.

"In agreement with the Buffster," the _boy_ added in uselessly. "If it wasn't for Giles' here senority vote, you'd've been dust, buddy."

Spike could feel the muscle ticking in his jaw, anger running rampant through his veins. "The second I get out of these--"

"You'll be tiny little vacuumable pieces of dusts?" Buffy offered cheerfully.

"You're gonna pay. All of you."

"And our little dog, too?" Xander added mockingly.

"Yeah, laugh it up now, standing there when I can't do a bloody thing. Won't be like this forever, I can promise you that."

The Slayer took a step forward. "I'd watch where you're aiming those threats, Spike."

"Same to you," he shot back cooly.

"Alright," the Watcher said, trying again to gain control of the situation. "Spike, we're not here to harm you--"

"Then unchain me, you bloody git! I can't hurt you, think Mr. Scorch and Sear lodged inside my brain sees to that."

"So you've said," he reasoned calmly, "but as of now we don't know about malfunctions or, or--"

"Or I don't give a bloody damn."

"Gee, and this just makes the whole pro/con-of-staking-you thing _that_ much harder," the Slayer commented dryly.

"Spike," the Watcher tried again, going for appeasing. "If what you say is fact, if you're truly, erm... _indisposed_..."

"Then, what? Gonna study me? Maybe donn your own pair of white gloves, dangle a block of cheese in front of my face?" He snorted. "Not bloody likely."

"Well, ah, _no_. You said you had information, on the group of soldiers--"

"That your Slayer here is one and the same of?"

Buffy gaped. "That who and the what-huh?"

"Working the 'dumb blonde' angle, are you?" Spike tsked. "How annoyingly appropriate."

"You wanna clear up that vague?"

"The soldiers, Slayer! Side project to the morally-involved. You know, your pack of commandos?"

She looked slack-jawed. Which was a normal look fitted for the Slayer, admittedly, but this time there was genuine confusion in her eyes. "You're not serious, are you?"

What was she playing at here? He leaned back slowly, scrutinizing her the entire time. "So you're saying you're not working with the toy soldiers?"

"No!"

"You're not involved? Group of blokes, decked out in camouflage?"

"What part of _no_ did you not understand?"

"So, lemme get this straight-- them army blokes with their underground rat lab... you're not leader of their bloody gang?"

She looked ready to weild stakes out of her eyeballs. "_No_."

Well... that was anticlimactic. In the sense of irony, anyway. But on the plus, at least it meant he was relatively safe... here... locked in the tub of his mortal enemy.

"Can we fast forward to the less annoying part of this conversation?" Buffy sighed, sounding all drained and tired. Poor little thing. Was the Thanksgiving feast too much to handle? Or was it the news of her ex-Truly flouncing back into town, leaving without so much as offering up a romantic little farewell peck to the cheek?

"Fine," Spike happily complied, folding his chained hands across his chest. Got himself right cozy, body sunk into the curve of the tub, and mustered up the most smug smile he could manage. "I got some demands. You might want to jot them down."

Buffy, ever-so-eloquently, blinked. Slowly. "Demands?"

"Shall I wait here while you fetch a pen, or you want me to follow?"

It was the Watcher's sigh that filled the air. "Spike..."

"Suit yourself," he said. "First off, I want some blood. And _not_ some sodding Turkey Day left-over. I want the good stuff. O-Neg, if we're getting fancy."

While Giles and Harris still hovered in the background, Buffy went and plopped herself down onto a wooden crate that she pulled out from the corner of the room. The stake had long since been pocketed, but she still maintained the down-to-business aura to her. "Willow and Anya went to the butcher's shop," she told him, looking fittingly disgusted. "Be glad they're open on holidays."

"Glad?" he echoed disbelievingly. "Sorry, Slayer, but I'm not wining and dining on _cow's_ blood."

"Good, because we're actually getting you pig's blood."

Spike's arms unceremoniously unfolded and fell to his lap, chains and all. "You've got to be kidding me..."

"Nope!" was her cheerful reply.

"If you think I'm spilling info over a cup of sodding _pig's blood_, you're off your rocker."

"Too bad. That's the deal. You get your free meal, we get the info."

Spike snorted. "Hardly. I want a telly in here."

Thrown off by that, Buffy faltered. "You want-- a phone? Right, because you're gonna call, who? _Harmony?_"

"A _television_, you stupid cow. I got my shows to watch."

She clambored to her feet, looking all coiled for attack. "Did you just call me a cow?"

"If the shoe fits..." he said, smiling pleasantly.

Giles stepped forward, interrupting what likely would've been the start of Spike's dusty ending. "I think we can agree to meet your demands."

Xander took his own step into the bathroom, arms waving about. "Hang on just a shiny sec-- you're actually going to put a TV in here? C'mon, Giles... room and board, free cable, room service? Am I the only one drawing a big mental blank at the very 'huh!' of this situation?"

"Yeah," the Slayer added in. "Since when did you suddenly become boarding house to the down-and-out pathetic?"

Spike jerked forward at that. "Hey!"

The Watcher merely sighed. "Since he's the only one whom we know of with personal ties to the mystery soldiers you've been seeing on patrol."

"So says his evilness," the boy muttered, eyeing Spike distastefully. Yeah, well, the feeling was mutual.

"Yeah, why are we even believing him again?" Buffy asked her Watcher.

"This could all be a ploy," Harris said.

"An evil one," the Slayer agreed.

"Get the invite..."

"Play the role of invalid."

"Distract us with talk of TV."

"Lure us into a false sense of complacency."

"Then strike when we're at our most vulnerable!" the boy finished, solemnly shaking his head. "Diabolical."

Giles stared blankly at his Slayer and Xander. "He's _chained_ to the tub."

"So we've given him a weapon! Great! And why not strip Buffy of all things wooden and pointy while we're at it?"

Finally, Spike could take no more. "Are you people actually having this conversation?" he asked, all but laughing out loud. "Who knew the Super Friends were so bleeding paranoid. Gotta tell you, though, I'm hurt you'd suggest such a thing. Here I came, out of the goodness of my heart--"

"Hunger of your stomach," the Slayer retorted.

"--And I'm getting the third degree? Not an ounce of trust to speak of. It's disappointing, really."

"Look who's talking," Buffy shot back. "Two minutes ago you were convinced I was one of those.. those army people!"

"And for damn good reason!"

"Paranoid delusion is not _reason_."

"How about simple fact?"

Buffy huffed. "You're insane."

"Doesn't make me any less right."

"Actually," Harris cut in. "By definition, it does. But coming at the heels of Drusilla, I can see where you'd get confused."

Spike stiffened. It was one thing to simply hear her name, but for the boy to sputter insults? "Say that name again, and it'll be the last sound you make."

Xander swirled a finger in Spike's general direction. "Do you know how intimidating and scary you're _not_, chained up like that? Is the Big Bad going to scowl me to death?"

"Xander," Giles sighed. "Don't provoke him."

"Yeah, _Xander._ Don't provoke him."

"Shut up, Spike," Buffy reflexively snapped. "Nobody's provoking anybody."

"Speaking of," Spike agreed. "Where's my blood?"

She started to frown. "How is that... you know what? Never mind."

"I'm not talking 'til I've eaten, Slayer. Seems only fair since I had to watch you lot stuff your faces."

"Didn't I just tell you _two_ minutes ago that Willow and Anya are out getting blood? Besides, take a look around you, Spike. You're not in any position to be barking out orders."

"That right? Funny, 'cause _I'm_ the one with all the info..."

"And _I'm_ the one with the stake and, oh look! The moral obligation to kill your kind!"

"Say that again, but without looking to your Watcher for permission."

"Are you suicidal?" she angrily bit back, taking a threatening step forward.

"No," he smiled. "Just right."

"You're sitting in Giles' tub. Personally, I think you look a lot less right and more... pathetic. Oh, yeah, definitely pathetic."

Spike pushed himself to the edge of the tub. "You're--"

"Alright, enough!" the Watcher cut in, his frustration obvious. "Spike, you'll get your blood."

"_And_ a telly. After all, it's the least you can do."

"Actually," Buffy said, "that'd be staking you."

He offered her a dry smile. "If redundancy could kill..."

"Xander, Buffy," Giles said, corralling them towards the open doorway. "Get the television--"

Buffy came to an abrupt halt. "What? You can't be serious!"

Xander shook his head, an amazed sort of awe. "Free food. Free cable. Utilities. Can _I_ live in your tub, Giles?"

"Spike's not--" Giles cut off his own words with yet another sigh, trying hard to reel in his frustration. "Look, just do as I say. Buffy, Xander?"

"Fine," the Slayer huffed. "But I'm not getting the cable box."

Spike, of course, perked. "Oh! Could you?"

Buffy threw a scathing glare towards the tub, but Giles ushered her forward. "Buffy, please."

She reluctantly left the room, grumbling, "C'mon, Xander," behind her.

When both disappeared from view and the tip-tap of their heartbeats had faded, Spike's attention shifted upwards to the Watcher. Big ol' grin on his face, one that just spoke equally of sympathy and his own twisted amusement. "Defiant little spitfire, isn't she?"

"Shut up, Spike," Giles droned, his focus on the comfort level of the shackles keeping Spike bound. He was making sure they were secure, lest Spike had it in him to break free and, I don't know, _not_ be able to bite them. "For now, this will have to make-- are those scoff marks? In my bathtub!"

Remembering his previous achievements, Spike couldn't help but smile. "It's the chains, Rupes. Negative all around."

The Watcher eyed the black marks, looking for all the world like Spike had torched the place up instead. "Chains, my arse," he muttered, glowering. He gestured at the heel of the tub, all indignant and nance-like. "Clearly those are marks made from your boots."

Spike dropped the smirk for the classic wide-eyed look of innocence, tsking just so. "I'm _shocked_ that you'd say such a thing. Really, I am--"

"Oh, for the love of..." Giles turned and left, deflated from their short attempt to come to a peaceful agreement. And maybe a little upset over the treatment done to his precious bleeding tub.

"Hey!" Spike called after him, leaning over the tub's edge to see out the bathroom door and down the hallway. "You think maybe I could get a pillow? Porcelain's biting into my back, and these bloody chains--" He shook said chains for emphasis, still staring down the now empty hallway. "Just a small one will do! Giles? Slayer! Oh, bloody hell."


End file.
